Recognition
by usa123
Summary: Surrounded by Captain America costumes; fake Iron Man armor; giant, green Hulk fists, toy Mjölnirs and plastic Widow's Bites, Clint Barton thought Hawkeye's role in the Battle of New York had been forgotten...until he runs into someone who proves him wrong.


**I don't own the Avengers. **

* * *

_It was hard being one of the only unenhanced people on the Avengers_, Clint Barton groused as he passed yet another storefront window bursting with flag-inspired outfits; Iron Man armor; giant, green Hulk fists; and cape and Mjölnir ensembles. Unlike the others, this store was even advertising black catsuits and Widow's Bites.

Barton scanned the window, finally noticing a small quiver jammed into the corner of the display, the fletching askew on two of the toy arrows. _At least he hadn't been completely forgotten_. Shaking his head sadly, he continued down the busy Manhattan street, shoving his hands into his pockets as the harsh October breeze picked up.

After the Chitauri invasion, the city had been infected with Avengers fever and this bewitching season the store owners had been more than happy to fuel the fire. Avengers merchandise, which included everything from costumes to dishware, was sold in stores, at restaurants and even mobile kiosks, including one directly outside of Stark Tower that provided fodder for the Iron Man groupies.

The lack of acknowledgement really shouldn't have bothered him: his old profession had required complete stealth and, for all intents and purposes, being invisible. Even in the Battle of New York, he had done little fighting on the ground, thus reducing the chances for people to have seen him. Still…it was hard watching everyone else receive public recognition for their contributions while he was summoned to investigation after investigation, hoping the Council wouldn't burn him for what he'd done under Loki's spell.

Barton pulled the cords on his sweater that tightened his hood around his head as the wind switched directions, choosing to blow directly into his face. He couldn't wait for Halloween to be over—a few more days of this _chaos _and the city could go back to its skewed version of normal for another 364.

And who knows what could happen in that time? This time next year he might not even _be_ in Manhattan. Assuming the court ruled in his favor, orders to move out could come at any time. As much as he'd loved working with the Avengers and kicking some intergalactic ass, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't anxiously awaiting a new mission briefing. A new assignment meant he'd be back at SHIELD where he didn't need two geniuses, a World War II soldier and a god to be considered successful.

He tucked his head so he didn't have to stare into any more storefront windows and headed back towards the temporary apartment SHIELD had assigned him until the backlash from the Chitauri incident blew over.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the gentle collision with his leg until he heard a soft "ouch!" Clint glanced down to see a brown-haired boy, no more than seven, landing hard on his rear.

"You okay, kid?" Clint stepped in front of the boy so traffic was forced to part around them. He heard soft curses as the other pedestrians expressed their displeasure, one woman going so far as to whack him with her oversized, overweight purse. Barton never took his eyes off the kid, who was making no motion to stand, leaving Clint wondering if he had been seriously hurt.

Just then, the boy looked up, his eyes wide, and it took Clint longer than it should have to realize the kid's chin was trembling.

"What's wrong?" he asked as he squatted beside the child. "Are you hurt?"

"No sir," the kid shook his head sadly, his voice quavering. He sat for another moment before carefully lifting himself to his feet. "I'm sorry I ran into you."

As the kid stood, Barton saw his gaze shift downward, flickering rapidly from left to right. "You drop something?"

"Yeah," the boy replied, drawing out the 'a' sound.

"Well, maybe I can help you find it. What'd'ya lose?"

"My Halloween costume."

Clint's gut twinged as more feelings of hatred for this holiday bubbled back to the surface. Growing up in the circus, he'd never really had a chance to know the weekly stop well enough to trick-or-treat. Plus, he wore a costume every day and _acquired_ candy whenever he wanted (Barney hadn't cared about those sorts of things) so the holiday had carried little meaning to him even before this year.

"You're gonna have to be more specific," he ground out, frantically pushing the unwanted memories back into the mental lockbox where they belonged.

"It's in a blue bag from _Spirit_."

Clint had wanted a little more detail but decided that would work. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a medium-sized, blue plastic bag ricocheting between pedestrians who were too transfixed by their cell phones to realize it was there.

"Over there," Barton announced, pointing to the street corner.

"Thanks, mister!" The kid sprinted toward the shopping bag, completely ignoring the disgruntled curses that sounded when he collided with other pedestrians.

_That kid was going to get himself killed_, Barton thought, rolling his eyes at the child's unabashed enthusiasm. With a deep sigh, he stood and hurried after the boy who had reverently picked up the bag and was quickly pawing through its contents. After a few seconds, he looked up, tucked the bag under his arm and glanced left and right, ready to cross the street.

"Hey wait!" Clint shouted before the kid could step off the curb.

Surprisingly, the boy heard him and glanced over his shoulder. "What, mister?"

"You're a public menace," Clint muttered quietly, taking a few long strides to arrive at the corner. He raised his voice and continued, "You can't just go running off like that. People here don't give a s—don't care what happens to you."

The kid's face fell. "Oh."

Clint groaned softly. There was a reason SHIELD didn't assign him missions involving children: he had no idea what to say to them! He exhaled loudly, dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, then amended, "Not like that—obviously they care about you. They just aren't paying attention enough to make sure they don't shove you into the street. Speaking of people who should be looking out for you, where are your parents?"

"They're at work." The kid replied, his face contorting into a deep frown. "But my mom said I could go the costume store with my friends when school got out."

"Where are your friends now?"

"They left. They got their costumes already. They didn't have to look as hard as I did for mine."

Clint looked around the busy street corner, trying to ignore the slightly hopeful look on the kid's face. He was clearly waiting for the archer to ask what his costume was but Barton didn't have time to deal with more of the boy's antics—he had plans with a stunning brunette in a few hours and could absolutely not be late. He glanced around again and saw the sun disappearing behind a tall high rise. It was going to be dark soon and he knew he couldn't just leave the child in the middle of busy Manhattan traffic.

"Where's your house, kid?"

The child stared curiously at Clint for a long moment. "I'm not supposed to tell strangers that."

Barton inhaled sharply, his patience dwindling by the second. "Look, I don't care if you don't want to tell me that. I can't just leave you in the middle of street and hope you won't run into someone who's a little less forgiving that I was. I can call you a cab if that makes you feel better."

The kid's face lit up. "Can you get me the Cash Cab? Me and my dad always said we were gonna ride in it someday. He's really smart. He'd probably win _millllllions_."

"I can't promise that," Clint quickly returned, avoiding the fact that he had no idea what a cash cab was. "I can get you a normal, regular cab though."

"No way," the kid vehemently shook his head. "They're dirty and smelly."

"Then you're going to have to tell me where you live."

The kid clutched his costume more tightly to his chest, still looking like he was going to refuse.

"Tell you what," Clint sighed, realizing that getting rid of this kid wasn't going to be as easy as he'd hoped. "I'll walk with you to the intersection closest to your house and let you go from there. That way I don't know exactly where you live but you're not taking on Manhattan by yourself."

The kid thought for a moment before shifting the bag to his other arm and extending his right hand. Clint grinned and took the boy's small hand in his, shaking it once.

"Deal."

* * *

As the kid practically floated home, his hands tightly gripping the _Spirit _bag, Clint resigned himself to the fact that this little detour would take a while and decided it wouldn't hurt to talk to his temporary companion.

"I'm Jeremy," the boy piped up, as if reading his mind.

_What a boring, vanilla name_. "Well then Jeremy, what exactly are you going to be for Halloween?"

Jeremy looked up excitedly. "You really wanna know?"

"Would I have asked you if I didn't?"

The kid shrugged. "Grown-ups ask me lots of things and don't care about my answer. I think they're just trying to be nice."

Clint recognized a kernel of truth in that statement, given his own unusual childhood. "Well _I_ actually want to know."

"I'll give you a hint." Jeremy stopped walking and dropped the bag. He rummaged through it and pulled out a bow. After tugging on the string a few times to make sure it still worked, he held it up to his shoulder in perfect form and squinted down the shaft of an imaginary arrow.

"Legolas?" Clint guessed sourly.

The kid groaned. "No way. Legolas is lame. He's got longer hair than my sister."

Clint couldn't help but chuckle. He thought for a moment then responded, "William Tell?"

"Who?"

Barton stared at Jeremy, wondering for the umpteenth time why he'd volunteered to do this. Every time he opened his mouth, he was reminded just how far out of touch he was with what people considered relevant.

"Never mind. Are you Robin Hood?"

"The fox from the Disney movie?"

_Yet another reason why he avoided children like the plague. They knew nothing. _"You're not Katniss are you?" Clint asked, after a long-suffering sign.

The kid's eyes widened. "She's a girl. I can't be a girl. They have cooties."

Clint almost burst out laughing, managing at the last second to mask it under a loud cough.

"I've only seen the posters though," Jeremy continued. "Daddy says I'm too young to see the movie. She a good archer?"

"Form leaves something to be desired but her heart's in the right place."

Jeremy bounced from one foot to the other, clearly waiting for Clint to guess again. As much as the SHIELD agent wanted to oblige, he couldn't think of any more suggestions that the kid might actually understand. "You're taking too long," Jeremy finally blurted out. "I'm gonna be Hawkeye!"

Barton's jaw just about hit the floor. "Hawkeye like Avengers' Hawekeye?"

Jeremy gave him a concerned look, like Clint should clearly know this. "Yes." Then his face fell. "You think he's lame too," he muttered sadly, dragging the toe of his shoe across the concrete.

It took Clint a few seconds but he finally managed to get his mouth working again. "I don't think he's lame."

The kid's grin widened to supernova proportions. "That's what I keep telling my friends. My friends think he's not really a superhero cos he's human and doesn't have a real suit but I like him. Not everyone can be super but he makes it work." As he spoke, Jeremy dug into his bag again and pulled out a quiver and arrows. He handed them to the still stunned Barton and withdrew a suit, holding it up against himself. "Whaddya think?"

Barton was too shocked by the kid's declaration that he wanted to be Hawkeye for Halloween to respond. He stared at the bright purple suit for a long while, unable to decide if Jeremy looked awesome or ridiculous. Because the answer was more the latter than the former, he eventually returned to the subject that still needed clarification: "You really want to be Hawkeye?"

"Well, yeah. If he can hang with the Avengers and still be human, why can't I?"

Clint's heart swelled and the corners of his mouth tugged upwards into a half-smile. "That's right, kid," he said as he patted Jeremy on the back.

Jeremy reached for the parts of his costume still in Clint's arms. While doing so, he glanced up, taking a good look at Barton for the first time. "You know mister you look a lot like him...Hawkeye that is. I know grownups don't really dress up, but you'd be a pretty good dop…dopple…look-alike."

Then Jeremy's eyes narrowed and Clint could literally see the gears turning in his brain. "Waaaaaaait a minute," he drawled suspiciously. "It's…you're…you're…you're Hawkeye!" he shouted, jumping up and down excitedly.

"No I'm not," Clint glanced around worriedly, all want of public recognition instantly evaporating as his inner sniper cringed at the thought of this very, very public display.

"Yes you are. I saw you on the news! You were helping people off the bus!" Jeremy continued loudly, drawing the attention of a couple walking on the other side of the street.

Without thinking, Clint held a finger to his lips and clamped his hand on Jeremy's shoulder, keeping him from bouncing. "_No_. I'm. _Not_."

Jeremy immediately quieted and mimicked Clint's "silent" gesture. "_Sure_ you're not," he said with an exaggerated wink. Then he lowered his voice and whispered, "You can't officially tell me. I understand."

"Kid, I don't think—"

"Wow," Jeremy breathed in total adoration, unable to form any other words. "Hawkeye walked me home. Maybe my friends should leave me more often!"

"No," Clint shook his head, recalling a particularly difficult case in Bangladesh, "no, no, no, no, no. That's definitely a bad idea. Always stick with your friends. Buddy system and all that."

The kid nodded his understanding. Then, something changed in his demeanor and he looked down, kicking a loose stone into the street. "No one's going to believe me," he muttered.

Clint rolled his shoulders, quickly realizing that there wasn't any use in denying that he was Hawkeye—the kid was going to believe what he wanted. It was actually pretty amazing that Jeremy had recognized him; after Loki had surrendered, FitzSimmons and the entire tech department had thoroughly scrubbed the press footage for any clear shots of Barton, Natasha or Steve, all of whom still believed in anonymity. Deep down, though, Clint felt just a tiny spark of joy that he'd been recognized for reasons that didn't involve his face appearing on a someone's Most Wanted list. He sighed deeply, shrugged, then decided to humor the kid. _"Why_ is no one going to believe you?"

"Cos the Avengers don't do normal stuff like the rest of us."

"_They_," Clint emphasized the exclusive pronoun, "all do stuff like the rest of you—except maybe Stark; he has people for that—but the rest of them go food shopping and take walks and go out to eat and see movies just like you."

"How do you know what Tony Stark does?" Jeremy asked, a knowing smile twitching across his lips.

_Oh, this kid was good. _"He's in every magazine imaginable," Clint backtracked, schooling all surprise out of his tone. "I must have heard it around…"

"Sure you did," Jeremy nodded patronizingly, his look telling Barton he knew better.

They walked in silence for a few blocks before Jeremy spoke up again.

"So you're saying I might run into you again?" he asked, keeping his eyes averted just in case Clint said no.

_Who knows where you'll be in a year? _Barton's earlier thoughts came rushing back to him.

"I can't make any promises...with my job and such," he carefully answered.

"Yeah, I know," Jeremy nodded before exhaling dejectedly. He bent down and began to pack up his costume. "It's just...it was cool having you guys around."

"Tell you what," Clint pulled a receipt from his pocket and scribbled on the back. "If you ever really need something," he snatched the card back from the kid who was eagerly reaching for it, "I mean, _really _need something, you call this number and I'll be there."

Jeremy's eyes were as wide as saucers as he reverently took the card and carefully inserted it into a small wallet he pulled from his back pocket. "Thank you Hawkeye!"

"Stop calling me Hawkeye."

"But I don't know what else to call you," Jeremy replied innocently.

The archer made a face, the pros and cons clashing in his mind, before reluctantly answering, "Clint."

"I saw your face earlier, _Clint. _Don't think people don't like you. Most people aren't cool enough to understand everything you do. You may not have as many fans as Iron Man but we're out there! I had to go to three different stores to find this," he held up the bag and shook it gently for emphasis.

"Really?" Clint asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, mister. You're the best!"

That was it; spy protocol be damned. Ignoring the voice in his head that was shouting that this was a bad idea, Clint pulled the kid close into a quick, awkward, mismatched hug that was over as quickly as it had begun. "Thank you Jeremy," he whispered, ruffling the kid's hair.

The kid wriggled out of his grip. "No, Hawkeye. Thank _you _for saving New York!"

Clint snorted—it had been a team effort. Grinning widely, he patted the kid on the back. "Let's get you home."

Jeremy was so in awe he didn't even care that he led the archer straight to his house. He took the stairs in two large leaps and pounded on the front door. Clint waited until a dark-haired woman carrying an infant opened the door and pulled Jeremy into the house.

"You're never gonna believe who I met on the way home!" Clint heard Jeremy exclaim as the nanny went out of her way to glare at him. Barton took his cue and hurriedly walked away before she could call the police.

"Thanks for walking me home!" he looked over his shoulder to see Jeremy leaning out of a front window, proudly waving his new bow.

"You're welcome, kid," Clint replied as he turned the corner.

Maybe this whole superhero thing wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

"**Little kids are good. Little kids are the ones who spot you in the crowd. You could have a beard, hat and sunglasses and the little kids are the ones that will see you out of nowhere." – Chris Evans**

**Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


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